


like poison dripping in our blood

by ExultedShores



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Actual Murder, Attempted Murder, Curnow Family Feels, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Hinted Piero Joplin/Anton Sokolov, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, It's fluffier than it sounds, Low Chaos (Dishonored), Low Chaos Corvo Attano, M/M, Mention of Aromantic Asexual Jessamine, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 02:31:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21111227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExultedShores/pseuds/ExultedShores
Summary: Corvo arrives too late to stop Geoff from drinking the poisoned wine - but not too late to save his life. Whisked away to the Hound Pits Pub to recover, Geoff never expected he'd one day be glad to have been poisoned.





	like poison dripping in our blood

**Author's Note:**

> Because I clearly don't ship enough rarepairs yet, please have 11k of Geoff/Corvo that I managed to crank out in less than a fortnight. Time isn't real, guys.

Geoff has always hated dealing with Overseers.

The Abbey is a self-righteous lot on the best of days, but ever since Hiram Burrows seized power and gave their Warfare Overseers the same authority the City Watch has, Campbell and his people have been downright insufferable. Every encounter between the Overseers and the Watch is fraught with tension and resentment, and Geoff has had to stop the men under his command from decking one of the bastards more than a few times now.

But about a week ago, his men insisted on spending their downtime at a local brothel, and Geoff wasn’t as vigilant as he perhaps should have been – not, as some have teased him, because the courtesans were too distracting, but because he was trying his hardest not to seem bored out of his skull. If anyone were to find out he has absolutely no interest in women, his career with the Watch would be over.

He never even realised the Overseers were there until it was already too late, until tensions had risen too high to quell. Treavers Ally had quickly turned into a sea of blood and teeth, and in the end, one of the courtesans lied dead, with no one willing to take responsibility for her murder.

And now here he is in Holger Square, meeting with the High Overseer himself to try and smooth things out.

They’ve been at it for what feels like ages, Geoff and his men sitting across from Campbell and his Overseers in the lounge just behind the main meeting room – to keep things friendly, informal, is what Campbell said. Yet there is nothing friendly about this meeting; it is a twisted game of trying to pin the blame of an innocent woman’s murder. The Overseers remain adamant that they were assaulted by the Watch, though Geoff’s men – and the courtesans who witnessed what happened – all claim it was an Overseer who threw the first punch.

But whores aren’t credible witnesses, and the whole thing has turned into an exhausting circling argument.

The chime of the grandfather clock in the corner marks the second hour of their meeting. “Time for drinks!” Campbell rises eagerly, the smile on his face strained. “I hope you won’t refuse. It’ll make this business pass all the quicker.”

Geoff is tempted to be recalcitrant just to spite the High Overseer, but then he, too, is quite eager to get this over with and get back to the barracks. He still has work to do, and then there are the reports on Callista’s possible whereabouts that will undoubtedly be waiting for him. “Very well, Campbell. As long as we get this little dispute settled.”

Campbell leads him out into the meeting room, leaving their men behind. It makes Geoff uneasy, to be separated from his officers, but then maybe a one-on-one with the High Overseer will help speed things along.

Campbell hands him a glass of Tyvian Red. “Now, about these Overseers…”

Geoff takes a sip of the wine. “Your Overseers are just as guilty as my own men, if not –”

The glass is smacked out of his hands with such force it has him stumbling.

It shatters with a deafening sound, and Campbell screams as he’s – Void, as he’s _run through_ with a blade, wielded by a stranger wearing a mask that looks like death itself. Geoff reaches for his sword, struggles to unsheathe it – his hands, why can’t he feel his hands? – and he points it at the intruder with the intent to arrest him. But there are no words coming out of his mouth, only blood, a thin trail dripping from his lips down his chin, and Geoff’s knees give out from under him.

Campbell’s killer moves with inhuman speed, catching him before he hits the ground, and the gruesome metal mask is the last thing he sees before his world goes black.

* * *

It _hurts_.

Every breath is a struggle, every movement agonising, every second of merely existing a trial. His head pounds as though his brain wants to break out of his skull, his throat burns something fierce, and his stomach – Outsider’s eyes, but it feels like the Void itself has made its way inside of him, bringing pain and decay and death into his body.

He’s vaguely aware of his surroundings. Someone carries him, strong arms under his back and his knees, and there’s the loud, familiar blaring of an alarm, and then – a flash of blue, and the scent of the ocean.

He certainly feels like he’s on the ocean. Adrift, being pulled under by the waves, surfacing just long enough to realise he’s alive before the current sweeps him away once more. He doesn’t know how long he’s been here.

Periodically, he can hear voices, drifting in and out of his grasp. He thinks he might know them, but he can’t focus long enough to identify whom they belong to, until inevitably he is dragged under the dark waters of the Void again.

* * *

“Can’t we go any faster? He’s bleeding, he’s _hurt_, we need to get him to Piero!”

“I’m sorry, the old gal is going as fast as she can. It’s not far now.”

“Hang in there, Curnow. Just hang on.”

* * *

“Ah yes, it’s Morleyan, I believe. One of the strongest poisons known to man, designed to destroy the body from the inside out. It’s astonishing he’s still alive.”

“Can you help him?”

“Of course! I’m not some half-baked cook like Sokolov. I just need this list of ingredients…”

* * *

“You shouldn’t have brought him here.”

“What else was I supposed to do? I couldn’t just leave him there!”

“We can’t risk our necks for every civilian in need! The best we can do is focus our attention on bringing down the Lord Regent and restoring the rightful Empress to the throne. That is the only thing that will help everyone.”

* * *

“You were supposed to keep him from getting hurt.”

He knows that voice.

“I know. I’m sorry, Callista.”

_Callista_.

He tries, Void but he tries so hard to reach for her, to call her name, to see for himself if she’s truly here, truly alright. But the harder he fights, the more volatile the sea becomes, and he is engulfed by darkness despite his efforts.

* * *

He wakes again to her voice.

“Do you remember Miriam’s wedding, Uncle?”

She has both of her hands wrapped around one of his, squeezing tightly – he can _feel_ it, he can feel his hands again – and she speaks in a soft tone, fond and heartbreakingly sad at the same time.

“I blamed Bradley for stealing the icing blooms on top of the cake, but you were right, of course, it was me,” she confesses. “How did you know?”

“Your dress.” He hardly recognises his own voice, raspy like a man who’s smoked a pack a day for decades. “You wiped your hands on your dress.”

She gasps, and he can hear the legs of a stool scraping on wood as she kneels by his side. “Uncle!”

He can’t manage to open his eyes. “Callista,” he whispers.

“Stay with me, Uncle,” she pleads, but even as she says it, she pulls away. “I’m going to get Piero. Please stay awake until I’m back.”

He tries.

He fails.

* * *

The next time he wakes, the sea inside of him is calm.

He’s still tired, so impossibly tired, and he feels weaker than he’s ever felt before, but there is nothing pulling him down, no rolling waves trying to drown him anymore. He’s bobbing on a still ocean, and now he just has to find the strength to swim.

Merely lifting his eyelids is an unprecedented challenge, but Geoff is nothing if not persistent – a stubborn bastard, his old commanding officer used to call him – and he pries open his eyes for what feels like the first time in weeks.

The room he finds himself in is unfamiliar, old but clean, well-maintained. He’s lying in a bed that could be described the same way, the metal frame of it rusted in places but the mattress comfortable and the blankets warm. There’s a stool right next to the bed, but it’s unoccupied – though there is another in the room with him, curled up on a ratty armchair in the corner.

At first glance, Geoff doesn’t recognise the man. He’s rail thin, with matted, shoulder-length hair that obscures most of his face, save for the five o’clock shadow that darkens his chin. Geoff doesn’t know anyone who looks like this, yet there is something about his posture, the way he holds himself, that makes him think of –

“Corvo?”

The man’s head snaps up, and while his sunken cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes aren’t reminiscent of the Corvo Attano he got to know during their voyage across the Isles, it is the eyes themselves that let Geoff know he’s correct. No one else has eyes quite that shade of brown, filled with warmth and kindness even now. Even after his Empress was murdered and he was framed for the crime, he can look at Geoff with that warm, kind gleam in his eyes.

He’s glad they didn’t manage to take that from him in Coldridge.

“Geoff,” Corvo breathes, a relieved smile appearing on his face. He stands, walks over – and that’s when Geoff sees it.

The visage of death dangles casually from Corvo’s belt.

Corvo follows his gaze, and he freezes. “I… Callista will want to know you’re awake. I’ll go and –”

“Corvo,” Geoff cuts him off, his voice far too weak for his liking, “tell me what happened.”

It isn’t a request Corvo can deny, and the former Lord Protector gingerly sits himself down on the stool by Geoff’s bedside. “You were poisoned.”

“Poisoned,” Geoff repeats slowly. It sure explains why he feels like he’s swallowed a ball of fire. “The wine?”

Corvo nods. “They couldn’t get rid of you any other way.” There’s a hint of pride in his words. “Most of the other captains could be bribed or bullied, but not you. And with a service record like yours, they couldn’t justify discharging you either.”

Geoff huffs something he meant to be a laugh. “Didn’t think I was important enough to murder.” He says it lightly, but his heart palpitates in his chest, as though reminding him it would have ceased beating by now if Corvo hadn’t intervened. “You saved my life.”

“Barely,” Corvo scoffs, a scowl darkening his face. “If I’d just been there sooner, I could have smashed the glasses, might have prevented you from getting hurt at all.”

Only Corvo Attano could feel guilty for not saving a man’s life _well enough_. “I’d be dead if not for you,” he points out, rightfully so. “I never even considered Campbell would poison the wine. I’d have drank the whole glass and thanked him for it.”

“I wouldn’t have known either, if Callista hadn’t told me,” Corvo divulges. “She’s the one who asked me to protect you.”

“Then I owe my thanks to both of you.”

Corvo avoids his eye. For as long as Geoff has known him, he’s had trouble accepting gratitude. To Corvo, helping others isn’t anything noteworthy. “You would have done the same for me.”

Would he have? “I didn’t even try to get you out of prison.”

Corvo’s brow furrows. “You couldn’t have gotten me out of prison, Geoff,” he mutters. He subconsciously rubs his forearm, and Geoff catches a glimpse of a wicked looking scar he’s sure wasn’t there when they sailed together. “They found me alone, with her blood on my hands.”

“But you didn’t kill her,” Geoff argues. Corvo Attano would have thrown himself on his sword before he raised a hand against Jessamine Kaldwin. That much he knows for certain.

“No,” Corvo confirms, “but I couldn’t save her either.”

And Geoff knows there is nothing he can say to dispute that. Corvo was the Empress’ Royal Protector, the one assigned specifically to keep her from harm, and he failed. Even though it wasn’t his fault, even though there is nothing he could have done, even though he wasn’t even supposed to be in Dunwall at the time of the assassination, Corvo will always feel responsible for the death of his charge.

Geoff clears his throat. “Corvo, can I trouble you for some water?”

Corvo is on his feet immediately. “Of course. I’m sorry, I should have realised – you must be parched.”

He goes to fill a chipped glass in the sink nearby, and Geoff takes the time to try and sit up – but white-hot pain sears through his body, and he can’t contain the groan of agony that escapes him. Void, he can’t even lift his head.

“Easy,” Corvo says, rushing back to his side. “Here, let me…”

He slips a hand underneath Geoff’s neck, calloused fingers cradling the back of his head as though it’s made of porcelain, gently lifting it up. The touch sends a shiver down his spine that has nothing at all to do with the poor state he’s in, and Geoff is glad when the glass is brought to his lips, the cool touch of water gliding down his throat a relief in more ways than one.

“Thank you,” he murmurs when he’s drained the glass.

Corvo lays his head back onto the pillow with the same amount of maddening care, his expression hidden by his hair falling over his eyes. “I should – Callista,” he says, less than eloquently. “I should go get Callista.”

He’s gone before Geoff can blink, as though by magic, and then he’s left with nothing but his jumbled thoughts.

* * *

He doesn’t see much of Corvo the next few days.

It’s understandable; Corvo is busy dismantling the Lord Regent’s support system ally by ally, and at night he stays at an abandoned apartment across from the pub that functions as the Loyalists’ hideout, away from all the hustle. There is a lot resting on his shoulders, and the least he should be concerning himself with is the Watch Captain who went and got himself poisoned.

Still, Geoff is rarely alone, the attic room he’s staying in almost always a flurry of activity. Callista comes to see him whenever she can, though most of her time has been commandeered by the royal child in her care, retrieved by Corvo from the Golden Cat, of all places, while Geoff was unconscious. Young Emily demanded to see him the day after he woke up, and promptly declared she would make Geoff a ‘get well soon’ drawing. It hangs above his bed now, a colourful depiction of him in his Watch Captain’s uniform brandishing an overly large sword, the very picture of health.

Others stop by too; the natural philosopher who purged the poison from his body comes to check up on him every day, muttering about tissue regeneration and components for elixirs and other things Geoff doesn’t know anything about. Admiral Havelock, the leader of the conspiracy he’s unwittingly landed himself in, stepped in only once, to lecture him on the importance of secrecy and security. Geoff can’t say he cares for the man very much.

It’s the servants he sees most of, Cecelia and Lydia and occasionally Wallace and Samuel seeing to his every need. Cecelia usually stays with him throughout the day, helps him wash and dress and eat and relieve himself – and he’d be embarrassed about it, about needing assistance with even the most basic of tasks, but Cecelia never makes him feel like a burden. She has a kind smile and a soft voice, and when he told her, earnestly, that she wouldn’t be out of place working in the Watch’ infirmary, she blushed something fierce and made sure Wallace prepared Geoff’s favourite stew for dinner that night.

He still sleeps away most of the day, though he’s gotten well enough to be able to sit up on his own strength by now. He’s forced to stay in bed while Piero has him on his medication – physician’s orders – so Geoff spends most of his waking hours reading whatever books Cecelia can bring him.

The fifth morning after he woke from his delirium, he’s made a decision. “Cecelia,” he calls, and she’s at his bedside in an instant, bless her. “If it’s not too much trouble, do you think you could find me a book on poisons?”

“Poisons, Captain Geoff?” she asks, tilting her head curiously. “Why would you want to read about something that almost killed you?”

He suppresses a grimace at the odd way she addresses him; when he told her she didn’t have to keep calling him ‘Captain Curnow’, that his first name was fine – she’s already seen everything there is to see anyway – she’d cheerfully switched over to ‘Captain Geoff’. He hasn’t gotten her to drop the ‘Captain’ part.

Not that he even is a Captain of the Watch anymore; the announcement spoken over the loudspeakers informed him of that. “_Attention, Dunwall citizens: Geoff Curnow, formerly a Captain of the City Watch, is now wanted for aiding the Masked Felon in the murder of High Overseer Thaddeus Campbell. Any information as to his whereabouts must be delivered to the City Watch at once._”

Geoff offers Cecelia a smile that doesn’t feel genuine in the least. “Know your enemies,” he recites. “Next time someone wants to poison me, I’d like to be prepared.”

He really hopes it won’t ever come to that. But if it does, he won’t be caught unawares again.

“Piero might have a book or two,” Cecelia muses. “I’ll ask him.”

“Thank you.” His smile feels a bit less strained.

Cecelia returns it as she collects the empty dishes from breakfast back onto her tray. “Do you need anything else before I head back downstairs?”

“No, go on,” he shoos her along. “If you use me as an excuse to get Lydia to do your chores again I fear she may come up here to smother me with a pillow.”

The mischievous twinkle in her eyes lets him know he should prepare to face Lydia’s wrath sooner rather than later.

* * *

To his surprise, it’s not Cecelia who comes to bring him his lunch and the book he asked for. It’s Callista.

“_The Royal Art of Poison_, Uncle?” She places a worn book on the nightstand. “This isn’t exactly light reading.”

“I’ve had my share of light reading,” he responds, gesturing to the small pile composed mostly of sensationalist novelettes Cecelia scrounged up for him. “I’d like to feel like I’m doing something useful again.”

Callista hums as she hands him a plate of sandwiches. “I hope it serves your needs. It took quite a bit of convincing for Piero to let me borrow it.”

Geoff stiffens. “What kind of convincing?” he demands. Callista is smart and resourceful, and he knows she can take care of herself, but he’s seen how Piero leers at her when he thinks she’s not looking, and it doesn’t sit well with him at all.

To his surprise, Callista laughs. “Nothing like that, Uncle,” she’s quick to assure him. “Piero isn’t interested in me that way.”

Geoff merely raises an eyebrow at her, unconvinced.

“Corvo brought Anton Sokolov back with him yesterday, did you know that?” He didn’t, but she doesn’t wait for him to answer. “Master Piero hasn’t stopped talking about the Royal Physician all morning. Cursing his existence, mostly.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

Callista smiles at him as though she knows a secret. “Do you remember when Cousin Vernon used to pull on the pigtails of the little girl next door, because he liked her and didn’t know how else to get her attention? It’s like that.”

Geoff furrows his brow. “You mean to say Piero –”

“Fancies Anton, yes.”

“That’s illegal,” he finds himself saying, reflexively. He knows it far too well. Don’t look at other men, pretend to find female anatomy as interesting as those who aren’t ‘depraved’, indulge during Fugue but _only_ during Fugue. “They could be hanged.”

Callista tuts. “Love isn’t evil,” she declares, with more vehemence than he expected from her. “We aren’t evil people.”

He can’t have heard that right – Piero’s medication must be addling his brain. “We?” he rasps.

Her smile is soft, and unbearably sad. “At Miriam’s wedding, when the streamers caught fire, one of the serving girls tripped and ripped her uniform. It exposed her brassiere.” A tinge of pink highlights her cheeks. “You didn’t look. You were the only man who didn’t look. But I did.”

Oh.

Void, Callista’s –? And she’s _known_ for that long? “You were a child then.”

“I was fourteen, Uncle,” she sighs. “I admit I didn’t fully understand, then, but… it wasn’t hard to put together either.”

The silence that falls between them is uncomfortable at best. Stifling would be a better term.

“Well,” he says eventually, trying and failing to keep his voice nonchalant, “I suppose we really are the last of our family, then.”

Callista stares at him.

And then she bursts into laughter, a small giggle quickly turning into a cackle filled with mirth, and Void but it’s infectious. Geoff finds that he can’t stop himself from laughing with her, even though it hurts his still tender stomach, even though this shouldn’t be funny at all, even though he wishes his niece wouldn’t have to deal with the same stigma he has to.

They regard one another with tears in their eyes – from laughter, and from sorrow.

“I love you, Uncle Geoff,” Callista murmurs, with a sincerity that makes his heart feel lighter than it has in months.

“I love you too, Callista. Exactly as you are.”

* * *

When he is finally allowed to leave his bed after three more days of forced rest, the first thing he asks for is a proper bath.

Half an hour in the hot water is positively invigorating, and though he knows he still has a ways to go before he’s fully healed, being out of bed and properly clean for the first time in weeks makes him feel like some semblance of a person again.

He’s on his way back to the attic, leaning more heavily than he’d like on Cecelia, when a blur of white skids around the corner and nearly bowls them over.

“Emily!” a harsh voice follows suit, and Callista hurries into the hallway after her charge. “You shouldn’t be running – oh, Uncle!” Her stern expression makes way for a delighted smile. “It’s so good to see you out of bed!”

“It’s good to _be_ out of bed,” Geoff returns her smile. “Even if Cecelia needs to practically carry me around.”

Callista’s eyes flick over to Cecelia – and linger, Geoff doesn’t fail to notice. “I’m glad you have such a devoted caretaker.”

Cecelia flushes, from the roots of her hair down to her neck. “It’s nothing,” she waves away the praise, her gaze firmly locked on the floorboards. “I’m just doing my job, Ms. Callista.”

“And a fine job you do,” Callista murmurs.

The very air seems laden with tension, and Void, if he could, Geoff would gladly make himself scarce – but then he isn’t the only one here who needs looking after.

“Callista,” Emily all but whines, tugging on her sleeve, “you said we could read about pirates after my bath but if you don’t _hurry up_ there won’t be any time before dinner!”

“Yes, Emily, I’m coming,” Callista appeases her, and she allows herself to be led away by the hand. “But remember, you also have to do your sums before bed.”

“I know,” Emily says cheerfully, clearly unconcerned. “Bye Cecelia! Bye Captain Geoff!”

Oh Outsider’s eyes, the damn ridiculous moniker is _spreading_.

Cecelia helps him back upstairs, a faint smile gracing her features the whole way. Geoff clambers back into bed, the little expedition down the stairs having left him exhausted, while she sets to tidying the room, sweeping the floors and dusting the windowsills, whistling softly to herself.

And Geoff – he has to know.

“Cecelia,” he calls when she’s put away her plumeau, “what do you think of Callista?”

Cecelia freezes, looking very much like a hagfish caught in the floodlights. “She’s – nice,” she says after a beat, haltingly, as though she isn’t sure what she’s supposed to say. “And… and smart. And Emily likes her a lot.”

“Do _you_ like her?” he prods.

“Of course,” she answers promptly. “She’s my friend.”

That’s not what he meant. “Did you know,” he attempts a different tactic, “that some people believe Piero fancies Anton Sokolov?”

Her eyes grow wide. “But that’s… not right by the law, is it?”

He almost laughs at the clear parallel with his conversation with Callista yesterday. “It isn’t,” he confirms, his mouth set in a thin line. “But I think the law is wrong, in this case.”

“You do?” Her brow is furrowed. “Are you allowed to say that, as Captain of the Watch?”

Now he does laugh. “I’m not Captain of the Watch anymore,” he reminds her. “And I’ll say whatever I damn well please.”

Cecelia looks impossibly small as she sinks down onto the stool at his bedside. “I think it shouldn’t matter who you love,” she confesses, her voice quiet. “I think the law is wrong, too.”

Geoff nods. “Then I’d like to ask you again: what do you think of my niece?”

She cannot meet his gaze. “I think she’s wonderful,” she whispers. “She’s pretty and kind and clever and she never looks down on me and I –”

She stops short, her hands clenched tightly together on her lap. “I can’t – if Overseer Martin found out – why are you asking me this?”

“Because I’ve known Callista her whole life. And I can tell when she’s in love.”

Not that he’s ever seen her in love before – and of course he hasn’t, he’s been looking for all the wrong signs – but now that he knows her preferences, it’s impossible to deny the chemistry between his niece and his caretaker.

Cecelia wrings her hands. “And you’re – okay with that? With your niece being…?”

“I can’t say I understand,” he sighs. “But then I’ve never fancied women much.”

Her head snaps up, her mouth forming a silent ‘O’.

“Like I said,” he shrugs, his smile tired but earnest, “the law is wrong.”

* * *

He falls asleep soon after Cecelia leaves, and he wakes, disoriented, a while after the sun has set.

He missed dinner, it seems; there’s a covered plate and a mug of bloodox milk on his nightstand, just visible in the strip of pale moonlight shining through the window. He must have been more tired than he even realised, and all that from little more than an hour out of bed. Void, but being poisoned is a nuisance.

Geoff heaves himself out of bed, with considerable difficulty – but he needs to light the lamp on the desk so he can eat, and he’ll be damned if he can’t do this much on his own. It’s been over a week since he first woke here, almost two since the incident. His body has had plenty of fucking rest.

And really, he would have managed it. Leaning heavily against the wall, shuffling slowly towards the desk, he would have managed it – if the scarce moonlight guiding his path hadn’t been blotted out by an unexpected shadow.

Geoff loses his footing, stumbles, very nearly crashes to the floor – _would_ have crashed to the floor, if it weren’t for a strong arm wrapping itself around his waist, catching him, holding him upright.

“Careful,” a voice rasps in his ear, sounding familiar yet not, tinny and strange. “You shouldn’t be out of bed on your own yet.”

Geoff twists so he can see the other’s face – but finds, instead, the gleaming metal mask of death, and he flinches despite himself. “Outsider’s eyes, Corvo,” he curses, “that mask could give a man a heart attack.”

Corvo tightens his arm around him, helps him regain his balance. “I’m sorry,” he says, and though Geoff can’t see his expression, he sounds more than genuine. “I forget, sometimes.”

He guides Geoff forward, towards the desk – not back to bed, not before he’s done what he set out to do, and Geoff appreciates that more than he could say. He hates that he needs quite this much help even getting across the room, but at least he can light the lantern himself, doesn’t have to sit in bed and watch someone else do it for him, as he’s had to watch others do _everything_ for him this past week.

When the room is bathed in the signature blue glow of burning whale oil, Corvo helps him back to the bed, and Geoff is glad to sit down again. “Thank you.”

Corvo hovers, uncertain, and Geoff pats the empty space on the bed next to him. “Cecelia says you’ve been busy,” he says, trying to keep a conversation afoot. He likes talking with Corvo, became fond of him, during their two months at sea – perhaps more than he should, in ways that he shouldn’t, but he’s become quite adept at squashing those feelings over the years. “What brings you here?”

Corvo sits, gingerly, on the very edge of the bed. He still hasn’t taken off the mask. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

And that’s – a touching sentiment. With the conspiracy going on, he’s sure Corvo has more pressing matters to attend to than seeing whether or not Geoff has died of boredom yet. “Clearly I am the picture of health,” he drawls, smiling faintly. “And you’re welcome to use the door next time, you know.”

“It creaks,” Corvo says. It does creak. “I thought you’d be asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“An explosion couldn’t wake me,” he jests, though it’s the truth. He can’t help but wonder how often Corvo has been in the attic room this past week, checking up on him while he slept. “You learn to sleep through the very end of the world in the guards’ barracks.”

Corvo huffs something that Geoff assumes is a laugh, though it’s hard to tell with that infernal mask covering his face. “Corvo, could you…?”

He gestures vaguely up to his own face, and he can feel rather than see Corvo stiffen, the bed creaking with the movement. But he obliges, lifts his left hand, the one with the weird tattoo he didn’t have when they were at sea, and pulls the mask away from his face.

And Geoff understands why he kept it on. He looks like death warmed over.

“I realise this is ironic, coming from a man who was poisoned,” he says, “but you look awful.”

Corvo smiles a sardonic smile that doesn’t reach his eyes – those same eyes that were full of warmth and kindness just a week ago now dull, hollow. It hurts just to look at him.

“Corvo,” Geoff breathes, “what happened?”

Corvo shakes his head. “Nothing happened.”

_Oxshit_.

“Don’t lie to me,” Geoff snaps, perhaps harsher than he should have. He is lied to far too often, by those who think they can hoodwink an officer of the law, and he doesn’t appreciate the dishonesty, especially not from someone he considers a friend. “If you don’t want to talk about it then that’s your right, but don’t lie to me.”

“I don’t –” Corvo begins, stops, looks away. “You’d think less of me.”

He’s quite certain that’s impossible. “I won’t.”

“You will.”

Before he can second-guess himself, Geoff reaches for Corvo’s hand. “I won’t.”

Corvo grasps his hand so tightly it hurts, but Geoff doesn’t pull away. “I murdered someone, Geoff,” Corvo confesses as though he is the first man to ever commit a sin. “I murdered her in cold blood.”

Admittedly, that’s unexpected. But then he has no right to judge.

“We all have skeletons in our closets,” Geoff says. A pitiful reassurance, perhaps, but the best one he can give. “Taking a life doesn’t make you a bad person, Corvo.”

Corvo shakes his head. “I’ve killed before, in self-defence, or to protect the people I care about,” he mutters, and Geoff remembers, with startling clarity, Corvo’s blade slipping between Campbell’s ribs – to save Geoff, to protect someone he _cares about_. “This was different. She was defenceless. All she did was fund Burrows’ reign, she was just… just a noblewoman caught up in something bigger than herself. And I killed her anyway.”

He eases his grip on Geoff’s hand, as though he is expecting him to recoil away from him. Instead, Geoff holds on tighter. “What would have happened,” he begins, carefully, “if you’d let her live?”

Corvo breathes deeply. “Burrows would keep his funding,” he murmurs. “He’d keep the full force of the guard. I wouldn’t be able to storm the Tower, and Emily wouldn’t get to take her throne.”

“Exactly,” Geoff says. “How many more lives would be lost then?”

“That’s not – the end doesn’t justify the means,” Corvo bites out. “I still _murdered_ her.”

“And you’ll have to live with that,” Geoff sighs, “and it won’t be easy. But that doesn’t mean you made the wrong decision.”

Corvo huffs. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

_He is_.

He’s silent just a fraction too long. “Geoff?”

Geoff swallows thickly. “I once slit a man’s throat while he slept.”

He’s never told anyone this before. Officially, the murder was attributed to a member of the Hatter gang – because Geoff had used a knife favoured by them, nicked it from the evidence locker and tossed it in the Wrenhaven, after.

There’s no doubt in his mind that he would have been killed himself, had he not done what he did, and yet it still haunts him to this very day.

Corvo looks at him as though he’s never seen him before. “Why?”

He owes Corvo this, at least. “I fell in love,” he rasps, “with someone I shouldn’t have.” A man, he doesn’t say. “Someone found out.”

“You killed a man,” Corvo repeats, slowly, as though he cannot believe his own words, “to keep your love affair a secret.”

“I did.”

Corvo’s form is stiff. “Was it worth it?” he demands, his voice sharp enough to cut. “Was it worth taking a life so you could – what, keep your career? Was she married? A noblewoman?”

The scorn is clear in his every syllable. “Does it matter?”

Corvo untangles their fingers, snatches his hand back, and Void, but _that_ hurts. “It does,” he all but growls. “Tell me _why_, Geoff.”

Geoff doesn’t dare look at him. “_He_ was an officer,” he whispers. Qiang had come to Dunwall from Tyvia, was all exotic features and easy smiles, and Geoff had been young and stupid and so very in love. “We weren’t careful enough. We got caught by one of our peers. He threatened to alert the Overseers, and if he had, then –”

Qiang would have been put to death, executed publicly, most likely, and Geoff – well, it would have depended on how heavily they weighed his Serkonan ancestry. He might have been sentenced to ‘rehabilitation’ instead, and emerged _wishing_ he were dead.

“I slit a man’s throat while he slept to avoid being hanged in Holger Square,” he spits the conclusion like the curse it is. “I’m _depraved_, Corvo.”

He’s not sure what he expected. Disgust, to be sure. Perhaps a sword at his throat, or a pistol at his temple, to have his life taken away by the very man he owes it to. What he didn’t expect was to be pulled, quite abruptly, into a firm embrace.

Corvo is cold under his hands, shivering and so very thin, but he’s solid, and he’s _here_, and that is really all Geoff could ever ask for.

“You’re not depraved,” Corvo mumbles into his shoulder. “You’re the best man I know.”

And he would have answered that with a sarcastic remark – “you can’t have known many good men, then”, or perhaps “have you looked in the mirror lately?” But he finds it is impossible to force any words past the lump that’s wedged its way firmly in his throat.

Corvo releases him sooner than he’d like. “Jessamine was trying,” he says, a wistful look in his eyes, “to have the law altered. So that people like you – people like us – wouldn’t be prosecuted for lying with another man.”

Geoff can’t quite remember how to breathe. “People like _us_?”

Corvo’s smile is sad. “It’s not a big deal, down in Serkonos,” he shrugs. “I never thought of it as anything strange, or _wrong_. Not until I came to Dunwall.”

Never in a million years did he expect to have this conversation with Corvo Attano, of all people. “I thought – the Empress, you weren’t…?”

“No,” Corvo shakes his head. “Jessamine was… different. She didn’t fall in love, with anyone. She _loved_, fiercely, but she never desired anyone, not like that.”

Geoff nods slowly. “And Emily isn’t…?”

Corvo’s cheeks flush. “Oh, she is, actually. Jessamine needed an heir, and she asked me to – well. It was, ah, an experience.” He scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m glad it happened in one go.”

Geoff doesn’t realise he’s gone slack-jawed until he snaps his mouth shut. “Outsider’s eyes.”

Corvo laughs, and – thank Void for the warmth that has returned to his eyes. “It’s both the worst and the best kept secret in Parliament.”

“Void,” Geoff says, quietly, but with feeling. “Did the Empress know that you’re – I shouldn’t ask.”

“She did,” Corvo answers regardless. “It’s why she was so adamant about changing the law. And she also tried very hard to find me a date.”

Despite himself, Geoff snorts a hearty laugh. “The Empress tried to set you up?”

Corvo’s smile turns into a lopsided grin that’s despairingly attractive. “Why do you think she chose you to join me on that expedition across the Isles?”

And that’s –

He can’t have heard that right.

“And here I thought it was because of my outstanding service record,” he manages, his voice strained, his eyes inescapably locked on Corvo’s lips, still curled into that infernal grin.

“That, too,” Corvo murmurs, and then he leans in.

Over the years – since Qiang – Geoff has grown used to aggressive kisses, hurried, sloppy, more often than not fuelled by alcohol and desire, during that brief period outside of the calendar when everything is lawless. They’re always hungry, desperate, too much and yet not nearly enough, and every single Fugue, Geoff craves them and dreads them at the same time.

This is different.

This is gentle, careful, tentative, _soft_. It’s warm eyes and chapped lips and strong arms, and it feels like a beginning. Not a footnote scribbled hastily in the margins, but a proper chapter of his life – the first chapter of many, he hopes. Void, but he hopes.

He never thought he’d be glad to have been poisoned.

* * *

It’s more than a week yet before Corvo can finally take the fight to Hiram Burrows.

With Waverly Boyle dead and her funding retracted, Burrows won’t be able to pay his guards their wages, won’t be able to compensate the technicians who keep Sokolov’s security devices up and running, and that will leave him vulnerable. It is now only a matter of waiting for the next scheduled payday, the First Day of the new Month, and watch Burrows’ precariously built walls crumble around him.

There’s little planning left to do; Corvo knows Dunwall Tower better than anyone, from the Empress’ chambers down to the most obscure passageways. Once he’s in, there’s nothing the Lord Regent can do to stop him.

It means Corvo can spend his time freely, for once, and during the hours Emily has her lessons with Callista, he can always be found up in the attic room, taking over some of Cecelia’s chores – most often, helping Geoff with his physical therapy.

There are worse things, Geoff thinks, than relearning how to walk when the Royal Protector has his arm wrapped tightly around Geoff’s waist, their bodies pressed flush together, with Corvo murmuring encouragements all the while and sneaking in chaste kisses to his temple or his cheek whenever he can. Geoff attributes the red in his face and his laboured breathing to the exercise, of course.

He can’t help but wish he was well enough to engage in a whole different kind of physical therapy, but then patience is a virtue, and so is discretion. He’s waited his whole life for something like this, something _real_, and perhaps he’s a romantic, but he doesn’t want their first act of intimacy to be defined by his body’s inability to keep up.

It doesn’t stop his thoughts from wandering, though.

“What’s on your mind?” Corvo chooses exactly the wrong moment to ask, as they’re making their way from the roof of the distillery back inside. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m focusing,” Geoff huffs. He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face if he wanted to. “Just not on this.”

Corvo chuckles, and Geoff can feel the sound rumbling in his chest. “Do you need some incentive to stay in the moment?”

His hand slides from Geoff’s lower back, _down_, and Geoff can barely contain a gasp. “If I could stand on my own two feet I’d make you regret that.”

Corvo leans down to nuzzle his neck. “If you could stand on your own two feet,” he repeats, his voice low, “I’d make sure you wouldn’t _want to_.”

Void, this man is going to be the death of him. “And how would you manage that, exactly?”

“I have some ideas,” Corvo hums. His fingers squeeze, and this time Geoff cannot help but grunt. “For starters, I would –”

“Corvo, there you are!”

Their heads snap up synchronously to find Emily Kaldwin standing in the doorway to the attic room, a thick book wrapped in her arms and a bright smile on her face.

“Emily,” Corvo rasps. His hand immediately flies back up to where it ought to be, resting innocently on the small of Geoff’s back. “What are you… don’t you have lessons with Callista?”

“I do!” Emily exclaims. “We’re reading about the history of Serkonan sovereignty, and Callista said we should go ask you since you used to know Duke Theodanis!”

She’s bouncing on the balls of her feet, clearly excited to be able to spend some extra time with her father, and Geoff couldn’t begrudge her that if he tried – even if he rather laments the interruption.

Emily skips ahead of them as Corvo leads Geoff back into the attic room, back to bed – primly and properly, no more wandering hands or thinly veiled innuendos. Void, if only they were alone. But they’re far, far from alone; Emily came in with Callista, and Cecelia is there too, sweeping the floor as she does every night.

“What’s this I hear about a history lesson?” Corvo inquires as Geoff sinks down on the bed. “I’m not sure I can be of much help, Ms. Curnow.”

“Call me Callista, Corvo, please,” Callista corrects him. “I was only hoping you could tell Emily about Serkonos’ current Duke, since you served him before you came to Dunwall. They say he’ll likely go down in history as an exemplary ruler, and I thought it might be prudent to make a case study of sorts out of his reign.”

Corvo hums in thought. “I didn’t know Theodanis that well,” he says. “But he was kind enough to ask me if I wanted to come to Dunwall rather than deciding it for me, so I can vouch for his character.”

“That’s exactly the sort of thing I’d like her to know,” Callista says brightly. “The books talk about great rulings and changes made by sovereigns, but it’s the way a ruler treats their subjects that really defines them.”

“Like how Mother tried to save everyone from the plague,” Emily pipes up, in a small voice. “She didn’t want any of her people to suffer. And neither do I.”

She sounds equal parts proud and so heartbreakingly sad, and Corvo’s smile reflects the sentiment perfectly. “I can tell you about Theodanis,” he agrees. “And some things about your mother, too, if you’d like.”

Emily hugs him tightly. “Can we have my lesson here?” she asks. “If Captain Geoff doesn’t mind?”

As if anyone could deny the Empress, especially when her eyes are wide and pleading and the exact same shade of brown as Corvo’s. “I don’t mind,” he tells her. “I might fall asleep, though. And I snore.”

She laughs. “That’s okay,” she decides quickly. “Thank you, Captain Geoff.”

Void, but he despises that ridiculous moniker. “I’m not a Captain anymore, Your Majesty.”

“Well, you should be,” Emily counters stubbornly. “When I’m Empress, I’m going to make you Captain again. Wait, no! I’ll make you Commander.”

The Commander of the City Watch stands at the head of the entire force, and Geoff can’t help but gape at the girl. “I’m – you want – it’s an honour, Your Majesty,” he stumbles over his words. “Thank you.”

She nods seriously. “You’re welcome, Commander Geoff.”

Oh, _Outsider’s crooked cock_.

Cecelia tries and fails to stifle a giggle – he knew it, she’s doing it _on purpose_ – and Geoff can’t help himself. “Maybe you could help Callista clean up the tower while the Empress is here, Cecelia,” he suggests not-so-innocently. “I’m sure you’ll be more appreciated there than here.”

Cecelia starts, looking at him with eyes round as saucers, clutching her broom to her chest as though it is the one thing keeping her upright. “I – if I’m needed, then of course.”

“Uncle,” Callista grinds out, warningly, “I can manage my own affairs perfectly well, thank you.”

The red dusting her cheeks betrays her, though.

“I know,” Geoff says, and he does. Callista is a capable woman. “But there’s nothing wrong with getting a little help every now and then.”

As he’s been needing help with just about everything this past fortnight, he doesn’t say, but then he doesn’t have to. Callista’s eyes soften, her rigid posture slackening somewhat. “I suppose the tower has gotten a bit messy,” she concedes. “It could use some… tender loving care.”

Cecelia ducks her head, a sweet smile on her lips. “Leave it to me.”

* * *

When Callista returns, a little over an hour later, she’s looking decidedly more dishevelled than usual, her clothes ruffled as though they’ve been left carelessly on the floor, some strands of hair escaping from what seems to be a hastily twisted bun.

She also looks the happiest Geoff has seen her since Miriam’s wedding, all those years ago, and that is worth the world to him.

Emily takes one look at her usually prim governess and giggles. “Wow Callista, what did you do?”

“We dusted the rafters,” Callista lies smoothly. “It had… been a while.”

Geoff has to fight to keep a straight face. “It went well, I take it?”

“Well enough,” she smiles. “I daresay we ought to do it more often. Keep things from getting so dusty.”

“So long as you trust Cecelia to treat the beams with respect.”

Callista cannot manage to look him in the eye. “I do,” she says. “I’ve never met anyone else who’s this good at… dusting.”

“Right,” Geoff mutters, suddenly very interested in the thread count of his sheets. Void, this is too much information. “As long as you’re happy, Callista.”

“Thank you, Uncle.” She mercifully drops the subject, turning instead to her charge. “What did you learn about Duke Abele, Emily?”

“He doesn’t like apricot tartlets,” Emily answers promptly. “And his favourite drink is Old Pattie’s Gristol Cider, but he rarely gets to have it because it’s never served at state functions.”

Callista blinks. “That’s... interesting.”

Emily grins wickedly. “I mean, Corvo also told me about the regulations he implemented to keep the mine workers healthy, and how he commissioned Addermire Institute to be built,” she shrugs. “But he doesn’t like apricot tartlets! Who doesn’t like apricot tartlets?”

Callista’s lips thin, the way they do when she’s amused and trying her best not to show it. “Well then,” she says, the smile creeping up on her despite herself, “since you learned such important things tonight, I suppose we can save the geography lesson for tomorrow.”

“Yes!” Emily cheers, rushing over to give her caretaker a hug. “Can we read about pirates again before bed? Please?”

“Oh, very well.”

“Okay, let’s go!” Emily exclaims, taking Callista’s hand and pulling her along. “Thanks for the lesson, Corvo! Bye, Commander Geoff!”

When they’re gone, the attic room quiet again, Corvo turns to him and raises an eyebrow. “‘Dusting’, was it?”

Geoff snorts. “Let’s just say that at least someone in my family appreciates the female form.”

Corvo sits next to him on the bed and takes his hand. “I’m glad it’s not you.”

“Me too,” Geoff murmurs, and Void, but he means that. He knows things would have been so much easier if he’d just wanted a wife and children, as is expected of men like him – but then he wouldn’t be here now, leaning into Corvo’s side, and he can’t imagine feeling quite this content, this safe, this _hopeful_, with anyone else.

It’s almost frightening how much Geoff wants this relationship to work.

He kisses Corvo before he can say something stupidly sentimental, something he’ll surely regret. Corvo hums a pleased noise in the back of his throat, cups Geoff’s cheek and responds in kind. He slips his hand under Geoff’s shirt, fingers tracing an old scar he got when he was still but a recruit, and _Void_, if he hadn’t been poisoned, if he didn’t still need help walking down the stairs, Geoff would love to make sure the rafters were well and truly dusted tonight.

His heart is racing when they break apart. “Stay with me tonight,” he breathes before he can stop to think, before he can realise this is exactly one of those stupidly sentimental things he didn’t want to blurt out.

Corvo freezes, his whole body rigid like an overstrung wire. “I don’t think I should.”

“Right. No, of course not,” Geoff mutters, mentally kicking himself for his lapse in judgement. “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous.”

“It’s not that I don’t…” Corvo trails off, looking away. “You need your rest, and I… I have nightmares, Geoff.”

He says it with a heavy sigh, and Geoff understands these aren’t just regular bad dreams. “Nightmares?” he prods, but gently, carefully. Corvo doesn’t owe him any explanation.

“It’s Coldridge,” Corvo whispers, sounding so very broken, so very small. “I dream… the interrogation chair, I’m stuck and I can’t – _I can’t_ –!”

He’s shaking when Geoff pulls him close, when he holds him tightly and curses Burrows and Campbell and every single corrupt bastard in the city for putting an innocent man through hell, curses himself for not trying to get Corvo out of there when Geoff _knew_ he hadn’t killed the Empress. It wouldn’t have mattered – he wouldn’t have gotten them to release the man everyone thought to be responsible for Jessamine Kaldwin’s death – but Voiddammit, he should have _tried_.

“Corvo,” he says as he strokes his fingers through Corvo’s hair, “stay with me tonight.”

Corvo clings to him even as he shakes his head against Geoff’s collarbone. “You won’t get any sleep.”

“I won’t get any sleep knowing you’re alone in that apartment either,” Geoff argues.

Corvo winces. “You don’t have to worry,” he says, entirely unconvincingly. “They aren’t that bad.”

“Oxshit,” Geoff returns vehemently.

“Geoff –” Corvo begins, cuts himself off when Geoff cradles his neck and presses their foreheads together.

“Stay,” he implores. “Please.”

Corvo closes his eyes, sucks in a breath. “Okay.”

* * *

Corvo was not exaggerating about the nightmares.

Geoff wakes to him writhing, limbs tangled in the sheets, face twisted in a grimace, sweat gleaming on his brow. But it’s the words that tumble unbidden from his lips that hurt most, squeezing his heart until he can barely breathe.

“No, please, I didn’t – I didn’t do it, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, _please_ –”

He lets out a strangled sob, and Geoff has to blink back tears of his own.

“Corvo,” he says, hoarsely. His hand hovers over Corvo’s shoulder, uncertain. “Corvo, it’s not real. You’re safe. You’re safe, I promise.”

Corvo strains towards the sound of his voice. “Geoff,” he says, his voice laden with so much fear, so much pain – too much, it’s too much. “Help me. Please, I didn’t, I didn’t, please –”

“I know,” Geoff manages to push past the lump in his throat. “I know you didn’t, it’s okay. You’re okay.”

His fingers brush Corvo’s cheek, his hand shaking, and Corvo shivers. “It hurts,” he whispers. “It hurts, Geoff – please, I can’t anymore, I can’t, I can’t, _I can’t_ –!”

Void, he’s never wanted to murder a man more than he does Hiram Burrows at this very moment.

“It’s okay,” he says again, even if it’s not, Void but it’s not. “I’ve got you, Corvo, alright? I’ve got you.”

Corvo turns, reaching for him, and Geoff throws all caution to the wind and takes him in his arms, lets him bury his face in the crook of his neck and fist a hand in his shirt. He rubs circles on Corvo’s back, hopes the motion is soothing. “I’ve got you.”

It takes a long time before Corvo’s breathing evens, before his frown smoothens, before his fingers uncurl from Geoff’s shirt. “Geoff,” he croaks, and his eyes are open when Geoff looks at him. “Thank you.”

Geoff kisses his forehead and then rests his chin atop Corvo’s head. “Go back to sleep.”

He does. And for the rest of the night, he doesn’t stir again.

Geoff knows because he himself doesn’t sleep a wink, just as Corvo had predicted.

He finds that he doesn’t mind in the slightest.

* * *

When Cecelia comes to bring him his breakfast the next morning, Corvo is gone.

He returns only when Cecelia has left again, and they spend the day pretending as though the night didn’t happen.

Yet when the sun has set, Corvo lingers.

Geoff only has to utter the one word. “Stay.”

Corvo stays.

* * *

The day before Corvo is supposed to leave for the Tower, the very air in the Hound Pits Pub is laden with tension.

Everyone is on edge, even Emily more subdued than usual, and Geoff is thankful he can spend the day focusing on his recovery – he can make it down to the ground floor of the pub and back up now, as long as someone helps him climb the stairs – because it helps him keep his head on straight.

He wishes he could say he isn’t concerned. He knows Corvo can do whatever he sets out to, knows he’s already worked a handful of miracles for this conspiracy that no one else could have pulled off. But then he also knows that it only takes one mistake, a single error of judgement, for everything to go belly-up.

And if Corvo fails, Geoff’s life will never be the same again. He’ll be a wanted criminal for the rest of his days, hunted down for the murder of Thaddeus Campbell, and if Corvo dies – or worse, if he gets thrown back into that hellhole that still haunts his dreams – Geoff doesn’t know if he’ll ever be brave enough to fall in love again.

Yet no matter how concerned he is, no matter how jittery everyone else is, no matter how stifling the air in the pub, the one who has it worst is, without a doubt, Corvo himself.

He’s quiet, stiff, his smiles strained and his eyes brimming with apprehension. He hovers at Geoff’s side more than usual, even bringing Emily up to the attic room for lunch, and by the time they’ve had dinner, Corvo is wound up like a coiled spring.

He stands with his hands on the windowsill, looking out past the walkway to Emily and Callista’s tower, over the ocean to the skyline of Dunwall beyond. Dunwall Tower is visible from here, standing tall and proud in the distance, and Geoff can’t even begin to imagine what must be going through his mind right now.

Geoff steps up behind him, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What are you thinking?”

Corvo’s shoulder is tense under his fingers. “Come watch the sunset with me,” he requests. “Down on the beach.”

The sun is already low on the horizon, and Geoff’s limbs feel like lead after spending the day climbing stairs. “You’ll have to carry me,” he says with grim humour.

“I will.”

And that’s – well, if that’s what he can do to give Corvo some comfort, he’ll gladly comply. “Alright.”

Corvo climbs over the windowsill, out onto the rickety walkway, and holds out his hand.

Geoff’s brow furrows. “How do you propose we get down to the beach from there?”

Corvo’s hand shakes, and his eyes are dark. “Trust me.”

There are few people he truly trusts these days, but Corvo is most certainly one of them. Geoff nods, despite his doubts, his reservations, and he takes Corvo’s hand, allows himself to be pulled outside.

Corvo raises Geoff’s hand to his lips and presses a soft kiss to the back of it. “Thank you.”

“Corvo,” Geoff murmurs, “what –?”

He’s cut off when Corvo tugs him close, kisses him with a sense of desperation that’s far too reminiscent of Fugue, of those kisses shared with the knowledge there won’t be any more for a long time to come. Geoff pulls back with a gasp – gets but a glimpse of Corvo’s expression, completely closed off, before Corvo turns away, looking back at Dunwall Tower again.

“There’s something you need to know,” he says. “Before I go to the Tower tomorrow, there’s something I need you to know.”

It sounds important, urgent, and as much as Geoff would like to be certain they will have time later, he can’t be, not when Corvo is going straight into the belly of the beast tomorrow, alone. “I’m all ears,” he says instead, in the kindest tone he can muster.

Corvo steps closer, wraps his right arm tightly around Geoff’s waist. “Hang on.”

And there are a million different questions on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn’t ask any of them. Instead, he simply does as Corvo requested. “I trust you,” he reminds him.

Corvo breathes deeply, steeling himself – and then there’s a flash of blue, bright and all-consuming, and they’re in front of Piero’s workshop; another flash, and there’s sand under his feet.

The tattoo on the back of Corvo’s hand glows in brilliant green and gold before it dims back to black, the symbol deceptively innocuous, and Geoff’s head _spins_.

Corvo keeps him steady until he finds his footing, and then he lets go, steps away a respectable distance and waits, as though he’s fully expecting Geoff to turn tail and run.

Admittedly, he’s more tempted to than he’d like. “What in the Void was that?”

Corvo’s lips curl into something that can’t be called a smile. “Heresy.”

“Heresy,” Geoff repeats, slowly. “Witchcraft.”

“Not… exactly,” Corvo sighs. Void, he sound so tired. “After I escaped from prison, I was – he came – the Outsider spoke to me. This,” he says, tapping the tattoo, “is his Mark. His favour, I suppose. It allows me to do things other people can’t.”

Like teleporting, clearly. “I see,” Geoff says, because – well, Void, what is someone supposed to say to that?

“Jessamine’s killer has it too,” Corvo whispers, so softly his words are almost lost in the wind. “I needed to… level the playing field. I couldn’t say no to power that would help me save Emily.”

And that, the desire to protect family no matter the cost, that Geoff does understand. “Alright.”

Corvo’s head snaps up. “Alright?”

“Alright,” Geoff nods. “I would have done the same thing for Callista.” And really, it’s not as though they aren’t already heretics in the eyes of the Abbey merely for being in love. “I won’t pretend I understand what all this is, or that I want to, but… it doesn’t change anything.”

Corvo lets out a long breath, and it’s as though half of the weight on his shoulders has disappeared with Geoff’s words. “You really are the best man I know.”

This time it’s Geoff who steps up and kisses Corvo, with a raw urgency he can’t explain. He just needs Corvo to know that he’s in this for the long haul, Void magic be damned – and Corvo responds in kind, cradles his face and holds it almost reverently, as though he can hardly believe the man in his arms is real.

They miss the sunset entirely.

* * *

It’s the waiting that’s the worst.

Corvo left him with a soft kiss and an unspoken promise to return, and he and Samuel took to the river not long after sunrise, heading for Dunwall Tower’s waterlock to settle the score with Hiram Burrows once and for all.

It’s long past noon now, and Geoff’s nerves are completely fried.

He spent the better part of the morning polishing his blade and cleaning his pistol, taking comfort in the familiar tasks he hasn’t needed to perform for weeks now. Just carrying the weapons at his hip makes him feel better, more in control, less powerless, and he’ll take all the comfort he can get.

In the afternoon he goes downstairs to the pub, spending what little energy he has helping Cecelia and Lydia and Wallace set up the bar for Corvo’s return. It’ll be a party, they all say, because Corvo will succeed, and he will come back, and they’ll have to celebrate. The other outcome – the more likely outcome, statistically – is something no one even wants to consider.

Geoff is sitting in a booth with Emily and Callista, resting after the hour he spent helping Wallace make Serkonan blood sausages, when the speakers crackle to life.

But it’s no announcement that’s broadcast this time. Instead, it’s Hiram Burrows’ nasally voice engaging in a monologue that will be his undoing. He confesses to having the Empress killed, to framing Corvo, even to bringing the plague to Dunwall’s shores for the purpose of weeding out the poor and the downtrodden. It is horrifying, sickening, and utterly, utterly damning.

The silence that follows in the wake of the Lord Regent’s confession is deafening.

It’s Emily who breaks it, in a small voice that seems to echo throughout the room. “Is it over now?”

Callista nods. “I think it is.”

Cecelia goes to watch the river then, looking out for the _Amaranth_’s triumphant return. It’s an hour yet before she ducks back inside, her red hair windswept and the smile on her face radiant.

Yet it’s not until Geoff sees Corvo step through the door that he relaxes, relief crashing over him like a tidal wave.

He’s here. He’s alive, he’s done what he had to do, and he’s _here_.

Corvo meets his eye, and he smiles a smile that could light up all of Dunwall, a tired, earnest, heartwarming smile that Geoff cannot help but return. Void, if they were alone – or really, if only the new High Overseer wasn’t here – he’d take great pleasure in claiming that smile for himself.

Later. There will be time later. Corvo has made sure of that.

Pendleton hails him like the hero he is, making a surprisingly rousing speech about the new dawn breaking, now that the Lord Regent has fallen to the very apparatus that gave him life to begin with. Then he hands Corvo a drink, and they all raise their tumblers in toast.

And that’s when Geoff sees it.

Corvo’s drink is darker than the others’, and it swirls slower, as though the liquid is thicker.

He’s on his feet before he even realises it, clasps Corvo’s shoulder firmly before he can raise the drink to his lips. “Don’t,” he hisses in Corvo’s ear, urgently but quietly. “It’s poison.”

To his credit, Corvo doesn’t so much as flinch. He dips his head, lets his hair obscure his face. “Are you sure?” he murmurs back.

“I read up on poisons while I recovered,” Geoff mutters. “There’s poison in your drink. Tyvian. Trust me.”

Corvo nods. “I do.”

Geoff moves away, and to the room at large their exchange must have seemed like nothing more than a mere offering of congratulations. Corvo sets his drink down on the bar, untouched, and neither Geoff nor Corvo misses the way all three of the main conspirators stiffen. Pendleton is sweating bullets, Havelock sets his jaw, and Martin’s sharp eyes move from the drink to Corvo to Geoff.

Geoff has his pistol aimed at Martin’s head before the latter’s hand is even halfway to his weapon. “I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

“Uncle!” Callista gasps. “What are you doing?”

Her exclamation is lost in the scraping of steel as both Havelock and Corvo draw their blades, both poised to fight. “Poison?” Corvo demands, his face twisted into a grimace of rage and hurt. “_That’s_ how you wanted to take me out?”

There’s no reason to deny it. “We wanted your body intact.”

Corvo’s lips turn into a snarl. “Stand down,” he grinds out between clenched teeth. “Stand down and you’ll live.”

Havelock’s knuckles are white around the hilt of his sword. “Why would you let us live?”

“Because my daughter has seen enough bloodshed.”

Havelock doesn’t move.

“Just put the weapon down!” Pendleton all but screeches. “We lost, don’t you get it? We _lost_!”

“Gambled on the wrong horse,” Martin shrugs. He would sound nonchalant, if his posture wasn’t quite so tense. “It happens.”

Havelock lets out a long sigh – and lets his blade clatter to the ground.

Everything is a whirlwind after that. Samuel collects Havelock’s sword, then takes his pistol as well as Martin’s sabre. The three traitors are locked in the kennels for the night, to be brought to true justice on the morrow, when Emily finally takes her throne.

And only _then_ is it well and truly over.

* * *

The second the attic’s door closes behind them, Corvo pushes him up against it, claims his mouth with an overwhelming sense of _want_ that has Geoff humming a pleased noise in the back of his throat. He wraps his arms around Corvo’s neck, pulls him in, as close as possible and then closer still, relishing in the mere fact that Corvo is here with him; he’s not been arrested or killed or poisoned, and that is all that matters.

When they part, Corvo looks at him as though he is the sun itself. “Thank you,” he breathes, “for saving my life.”

Geoff reaches up, brushes a wayward strand of hair from his face and cups his cheek. “Thank you for saving mine.”

He gets but a glimpse of Corvo’s brilliant smile before Corvo pulls him back in, and then words aren’t imperative anymore.

They don’t sleep for a good while yet.

When they do, Corvo doesn’t dream.

* * *

Dunwall Tower is in chaos when they step through the doors.

Emily is heralded as Her Imperial Majesty without preamble, but it takes hours upon hours for Parliament to decide what to do with the man they believed murdered the Empress, and the man they believed helped murder the former High Overseer. And that’s not to mention the three men the Empress wants arrested, one of them the head of an ancient noble family and another the _new_ High Overseer.

It’s a headache and a half, but eventually a consensus is reached: Corvo Attano is declared innocent of his crimes, and Emily instates him her Royal Protector right then and there. Geoff Curnow is cleared of charges too, Campbell’s notorious black book providing more than enough evidence to rule his death an ‘unfortunate accident’, and Geoff’s promotion to Commander is a certainty that cannot be avoided, even if it will take some days before the paperwork is finalised.

It’s impossibly late when Corvo leads him into the Royal Protector’s quarters, his rooms mercifully still intact on account of Burrows never having appointed an official Protector of his own.

“Stay with me tonight,” Corvo is the one to make the request this time, and Geoff couldn’t deny him if he tried.

“I’ll stay with you every night,” he says, and that is a most resounding truth, “as long as you’ll have me.”

“Always,” Corvo murmurs into his hair.

Geoff isn’t quite sure how he managed to get this lucky. But he will do whatever he can to keep this love he never expected to find. He’ll drink a dozen more glasses of poisoned wine if he has to.

“Always.”


End file.
